


"his lips were bruised and bitten. he smiled at me still. his tooth was gone, scars and burnt flesh dripping from his skin. but he still smiled at me."

by rammy_zz



Category: Dream SMP [Fandom]
Genre: (rgb family is awesamdad + quackity and george), Cannabalism, Gore, M/M, WOW MORE CANNABLISM, and endgame - Freeform, awesampunz... iconic, but when theyre too annoying he just shifts them out or when he needs to fight he morphs claws, dadza kinda, glatt canon, heart eating typed out in more detail than needed, i was gonna just post the entire thing at once but, in all of his forms there are parts of creeper, it was never stated that he ate the flesh but it was implied so oopsie, it was startgame, middlegame, no spoilers but ... yes quackischlatt is endgame, punz is the Tired but Trying stepdad, quackity is a shapeshifter but is also part creeper so, quacknoblade mentioned/implied btw, rgb family also canon, schlatt isnt actually That Bad, the more cannablism was not meant to happen but woo, usually he uses his wings because theyre the thing he was born with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:26:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28906341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rammy_zz/pseuds/rammy_zz
Summary: the fall of jschlatt.the rise of quackity.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Jschlatt, Alexis | Quackity/Technoblade (mentioned), Luke | Punz/Sam | Awesamdude
Comments: 2
Kudos: 103





	1. part one; the start of the decent.

**Author's Note:**

> ty for reading !! HUGE tw for gore, cannabalism, n panic attacks
> 
> this is the persona, not the irl person !!
> 
> dont send this to any cc at all !

Schlatt watched him walk away. Sunlight peered through the windows at dawn as Quackity left to his own office to deal with his own paperwork. It was habit, he guessed, Quackity helping him into his room after a hangover. Sweat dripping down his forehead, skin screaming at the contact. He craved more. Every place Quackity’s fingertips grazed burned him. Brought warmth to his cold, husk of a body. 

He looked down at his desk, useless sheets of paper laying there. His brain was still foggy from the hangover, pounding through his skull. He set a hand on the pen he had sitting next to his messed up desk, loosely picking it up and writing out signatures for things he could barely read. 

Fundy creeped into his office, looking at him. Schlatt’s ear twitched, looking up. He raised an eyebrow, though his usually glaring, judging face had softened. Fundy fiddled with his jacket, “So, Boss-”   
  
“I said it was fine,” He sighed. 

“Oh- Oh yeah, uhm.” He looked down, taking a deep breath. “Could I have today off? Eret and I have some papers we have to do and the adoption process is just taking up all of my ti-”   
  
“Go ahead,” Schlatt mumbled. Fundy paused, raising an eyebrow. “Huh?” Schlatt looked back up at him from his paperwork. “Take the day off, Fundy.”  
  
“For real?”  
  
“Fuckin’- yeah! Yes for real!” Schlatt said, no real malice behind his words. Fundy smiled, tail wagging behind him. He thanked the ram hastily before walking from the room. 

\--

It was lunch break, and Tubbo had gone out to do God knows what. That means only him, and his husband. Schlatt walked into the small cafeteria-like area that they had, getting some coffee. Quackity was by the vending machine. He flashed a smile at the ram, wings flapping. “Hey Pres!”   
  
Schlatt nodded back at him, leaning on the counter. “‘ey, Quackity.” He mumbled, Quackity walking over to lean by him. There wasn’t much distance between where they were leaning, but it was enough that Schlatt didn’t think about all of those nights spent in each others arms, Schlatt fiddling with unclipped, messy wings, and Quackity trilling, rubbing into his neck with contemptment --

_ Fuck. _

Quackity was looking at him, worried. “You-- Are you okay, Schlatt?” He quirked an eyebrow, wings staying comfortably behind him. 

Schlatt nodded nervously. “Yeah, doll, just thinkin’.” He mumbles, pretending not to notice how Quackity flushes at the name. 

The duck-hybrid sighs, “Since Tubbo and Fundy are out why -- why don’t we take the day off? C’mon, Pres! You’re always cooped up in your office,”   
  
Schlatt gives Quackity a quizzical look, before sighing. “Convince me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Convince me that we should stay the day off.” He muses, taking a sip of his coffee. Quackity stares at him blankly for a moment, before urging closer. He hesitantly, carefully even, places his arms around him. Schlatt sets his coffee down, staring at the duck hybrid. 

“Y’know,” His voice is soft, warm. Quieter than the normal voice he uses. This voice he saves for Schlatt. For his ears only. (The thought makes Schlatt wrap an arm around his waist.) “We never get to just hang out anymore. You’re always either working, or sleeping.” 

He leans on his tippy toes, finding enough strength to pull Schlatt forward off of leaning, leaning back himself to smile at him. “So, what better time? Everyone’s out! It’s just us.” Schlatt averted eye contact, face feeling much too hot to be the President of Manburg. It didn’t help that Quackity’s eyes were peering from his sunglasses, a warm brown. They had thousands of other colours painted in them. Light blue reflecting off of them, ice. He was ice cold, but so, so warm. There were rougher scales, creeper-like, decorated near his eyes. A stark contrast. 

Schlatt started to notice other things too. Smaller, yellow feathers dusted the beginnings of his hair, right before his beanie cut them off. His ears were a bit pointier than he’d seen normal human’s, the same scales dusting their way on the backs. He remembers seeing those near his wings, also, but he’d always thought they were a trick of the light. 

Quackity placed a kiss under his jaw, “I’m guessing that’s a yes?” Schlatt nodded breathlessly, pulling back to look at him again. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s-- Let's go home, hm?”

\--

Quackity looked at his corpse, deformed. His mind must be playing tricks on him, because it looked like he had a picture of him -- of the ex-husband who LEFT him -- in his coat pocket. Quackity felt fucking  _ sick. _ His wings, broken and torn from the war, fluttered uncomfortably. He, not thinking, reached out for him. 

And he screamed. 

He screamed and screamed, till his throat was too raw to make noise and he was on the floor, gripping out of his husband, ex-husband, lover, whatever he was. He was Schlatt. He.. He was kind to Quackity. And he was soft with Quackity. And he stopped drinking  _ because of Quackity _ , how could he-- how could he let this happen? Forgetting everything that happened, forgetting that Alex fucking Quackity was in love with him. 

He looked back up at Schlatt’s rotting face. He looked so peaceful. And all Quackity could smell was iron. He could taste iron and his mind blacked out. His hands found themself, numbingly cold, reaching for his shirt. Morphing his flesh into claws, he plunged them into Schlatt’s chest. He could feel the dull, frozen tissue and he  _ tore it out. _

For some sick reason, his brain tricked him into thinking it was almost still beating in his hand. It was the hallucination of living that gave him comfort. He stared at it, studying the veins and the shape. Watching the blood drip down from his hands onto the caravan floor. He felt almost complete with it sitting idly in his hand. Like he wasn’t frozen over (he had been for much too long). It was warmer than he’d been in months, and he craved the feeling. 

He craved for his husband to be with him again. 

And before he knows it, he sinks his sharpened teeth into the red-coated organ, ripping it apart. Animalistic. He grinds it between his teeth, needing, hungry for more. He tears the heart apart until it’s nothing but chunks left in the wedges between his teeth and blood in his mouth and on the floor and on his face and  _ oh god what has he done-- _

But then, the warmth is there. And he relaxes, leaning back onto the caravan’s walls. 

\--

The first time he saw Schlatt was a week after Tommy was exiled. Horns that haunted him stared back this time, eyes wild and red and  _ burning _ . Schlatt burnt him. His perma-ice melted down until it was a sea of hatred. Hatred for being stolen from. Hatred for having to be left with nothing more left to lose. Hatred for not being able to trust anyone ever again because he was never trusted. 

But the sea spilled out of him, starting at his eyes. They poured down, raining down the face of a beast. He sniffled and sobbed until he was leaning over the bathroom counter, wheezing from his raw throat and lack of air. Schlatt frowned, blue sweater and red(,  _ passionate, bloodthirsty, needing, cherry-painted, Quackity had so many different words to describe them. While he was with Pogtopia he realized that he liked red eyes too much for his own good. But he didn’t like how they always ended in hurt,)  _ dissipated from his view. 

Quackity kept waiting for him to come back. 

Shaking, sitting on the floor. He leaned his head against the wooden door, closing his eyes. He reached into his pocket, gripping his phone. “Oh god,  _ oh god, _ ” He typed in the first number that his fingers recognized. 

_ “Quackity?” _ Sam.

“I -- I saw him,” Quackity says, still breathing heavily. Sam pursed his lips, furrowing his brows. 

_ “Saw who?”  _

“Him. I saw- y’know- I.. I saw him.”  
  
_“Quackity, I don’t know who ‘he’ is. Do you need me to come get you? Are you safe?”_ Sam asks, Quackity lets his eyes flutter open. He tries to breath in, it getting choked off. He heaves, before Sam continues without an answer. _“I’ll be at your house in 5.”_

Shuffling was heard from the other line, but never hanging up. Quackity tried to get up, but everytime he got at eye-level or above the mirror, he kept seeing  _ him. _ Tan face, greyed and bruised. Blood dripping down his lips; horns grown into his cheeks. His eyes were as red as ever, staring down Quackity. The only thing he could get out were whimpers as he pushed himself back against the wall, closing his eyes. 

The next thing he remembers is someone walking in(, rather running in) and saying his name. Sam crouched next to him, whispering softly. 

“Quackity? Quackity, it’s okay. I’m here. Sam’s here.” He carefully placed his hand on Quackity’s shoulder, watching for any sign for him to stop. Quackity curled over to his side, leaning into Sam’s arm. His breathing still hiccuped, uneven. He clawed at his throat, Sam having to tear his hands away. He felt them to his pulse.   
  
“Quackity, Quackity,” He repeated his name like a prayer, “I’m not him. I’m your dad- I’m Sam.” Quackity grabbed onto his hands in return, leaning into him. “Can you tell me 5 things you see?” Sam whispered softly, Quackity opening his eyes just a smidge.   
  
“Counter,..” He mumbled, voice croaky and hoarse from his crying. “La- Laundry, the tiles,,” He looked around, trying to spot something. Sam whispered praises, rubbing circles into his hair from the outside of his beanie. “You, I can see you… I see towels.,” He trailed off.

“What can you touch? Four things, if you can, please.” Quackity squeezed his hands, “Hand, uhm-- uhm, tiles, my clothing… you-, you’re here.” He mumbled out, voice still shaking.   
  
“Now hearing. Three things you can hear,” Sam whispered.

“You, I ca-- I can hear myself. I can hear.. I can hear the plumbing through the walls,” He leaned his head further into Sam, relaxing a bit. 

“Two things you can smell,” 

“I can .. I can smell my shampoo, and uhm… Toothpaste.” He mumbled, closing his eyes again. His heart rate had slowed down, breathing evening out. It’d been so long since he’d been this comfortable. 

“One thing you can taste,” Quackity paused, pressing his mouth into a thin line. 

“Blood.”  
  
_That wasn’t good._

\--

Quackity woke up in Sam’s base, his neck and eyes hurting like  _ hell. _ He rolled over, wincing at the dull beat of a heart pounding in his ears. From what his crusty, half-lidded eyes could make out, Sam was sitting at a table with Punz, talking about something on a piece of paper he had.    
  


Quackity groaned, causing Punz to turn his attention to him. He raised an eyebrow, elbowing Sam. “Dude, dude - he’s awake.” 

Sam turned to look at him, immediately getting up. He walked up to Quackity, grabbing a glass of water he put there earlier and handing it to Quackity. He sat up, muttering a thank you before sipping on the water. His mouth tastes less like shit, seeing as there was blood mixed with typical morning-mouth taste mixed while he was asleep. Sam quietly pet his hair, motioning for Punz to go over. 

He hesitantly walked over, leaning on Sam, who was crouched by the winged hybrid. He looked at him, concerned, before resting his head on Sam’s shoulder. They mumble things to each other, but Quackity can’t quite make out what they’re saying. 

He sets the water down, leaning up a bit further to stretch out his wings. He lets them go to their full length, his wingspan being not too much smaller than Philza’s. He flinches at the self-inflicted pain of pulling out feathers in stress, his wings aching from the constant, needless pulling. 

He leans back, sighing in contemptment. He looks around for his beanie, digging through some couch cushions. He finds it, a bit dirty, but still his beanie nonetheless. He puts it on his head, shaking out the dust on it. Sam and Punz have walked back to the table, looking at him expectantly. 

Quackity carefully puts his feet on the ground, stabilizing himself on the couch while getting up. He, albeit shakily, walked over to the table, sitting on a stool. Sam pushed a plate of pumpkin pie to him with a smile. “Eat up, Quackity.” 

Quackity grabbed a fork, digging in. He hadn’t had many of Sam’s cookings since he and George moved out, so it was a relief to eat something his dad made once again. 

Comforting. Safe. 

Once he finished, he downed another glass of water. Punz fiddled with the chain wrapped around his neck, Sam took one of his hands, pressing his face into it. Punz rolled his eyes, stroking his cheek. 

_ So Quackity had missed something, huh? _

Quackity cleared his throat, Sam turning his head to him. It took his a moment to process why he did that, but when he did, he pulled his face away swiftly. “So, uhm, Quackity,”  
  
“Does this mean Punz is my dad?”  
  
“.. In a way, yes,” Sam starts, a little flushed. 

Quackity narrowed his eyes, resting his head in his hands, “Do I have to listen to him?”  
  
“Not if you don’t want to.” Sam reasoned, Punz giving him a slight glare.   
  
“It’s settled then.” 


	2. part two; the end always meets with a spark.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it all ends here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AWUYHAUWHYE i didnt think this would get this popular AGGAYHAGHAGGAGAGA ok ok tws for this chapter
> 
> \- more cannabalism 

After a few days, Quackity returned to his house. It was just how he left it. Hollow. Empty. Things idly sat on tables, counters. Waiting to be used. He had nothing to do. All of his ‘friends’ were busy, and there was nowhere for him to go. 

He couldn’t rest, the couch was too uncomfortable and passing by the bathroom to get to his bedroom made his skin crawl. He leaned back into the stiff cushions of the couch (Schlatt liked to look presentable, of high class; he didn’t bother for comfort), closing his eyes. 

There were whispers, soft, angry whispers. They plagued his mind, infecting it like a virus. A parasite. It crawled its way in, through his ears, gripping at flesh oh so gently. 

  
_“The traitor must be eaten.”_

It took him a moment to realize what the whispers were talking about. Flashes of pink flesh, red eyes, tusks. Explosions, concussions, blood dripping from his skull as he gripped onto his first life. His hand moved towards the axe sitting next to him. 

He stood up, walking from his mansion. His feet, burning from already have walked from Sam’s base, continued walking. Philza, Philza must know where he is. Philza and him were always close. 

He knocked on the wood, which was adorned with flowers and different designs of wings and eyes. “Philza?” He called out weakly, eyes half-closed. 

The other wing hybrid answered, looking down at Quackity. He looked concerned, Quackity wouldn’t blame him, they weren't the best of friends. Quackity fiddled with his jacket, taking a deep breath, “I need to know where Technoblade is.”  
  
“W- Why would I know?” His voice was defensive, dangerous.

“I know you know, Philza. I just.. I need to talk to him. About something that… Happened. In Pogtopia.” His voice was choppy, cutting off sentences at random moments. Philza raised an eyebrow at him, 

“I.. If you try anything on him, I will make sure that you don’t return.” He doesn’t usually make threats, but Quackity guesses he’s an exception. Philza leads him into the snow, where Quackity has to hug himself to feel any warmth. They get to a small cottage, no signs of any malice. Philza leads him up the stairs, knocking on the door. 

The piglin towers over them both, red cape, which was previously adorned with blood, traded out for a blue one. Philza whispered something, before Technoblade nods, stepping aside to let Quackity in. Philza stays outside, leaning on the house itself. 

They avoid eye contact, before Quackity sighs, “I know what you’re thinking--”  
  
“Quackity.” His voice is secure. Stable. A different kind of dangerous than Philza. The same kind of dangerous as Schlatt. The kind of dangerous to where if Quackity got too close, he’d not melt, but _burn_.

“I know that you’re upset about what happened at Pogtopia-”   
  


“I’m not upset. That’s-- that’s not what I came here for.” He pulled the axe from his bag, gripping it till his knuckles were white. Technoblade raised an eyebrow, unphased. 

“You know you can’t kill me, Quackity. You’re too weak. You were too weak during the Festival, and you’re too weak now.” That made Quackity tip over. In one swoop, he swung at Technoblade. He dodged, moving to the side. 

Technoblade laughed;  _ cackled _ . “YOU THINK YOU CAN KILL ME? I’LL PUT THIS PICKAXE THROUGH YOUR TEETH!” Technoblade swung his pickaxe at Quackity; hitting his eye and dragging it down; all the way to his lips. Blood poured from Quackity’s face, but he continued. 

Technoblade leaned over Quackity, who was laying on his elbows. “This is what you wanted, right? This is what you expected,  _ right _ ?” Quackity didn’t reply, too busy making his way over to his axe. 

Technoblade leaned down, kneeling. “What? Speak, Birdy.” Oh. That name made Quackity hesitate. It made his stomach churn and made him want to latch onto him. But it was too late, his arm was already moving and before he knew it, Technoblade’s body; now cut in half; was spilling its guts onto him. 

He flipped the corpse over, looking at his dull expression and eyes. Devoid of any previous emotion. He took his axe out, slicing some of the skin on his jaw off, pocketing it. 

He got up carefully, quietly. Sneaking upstairs, he broke a window. He shakes out his wings, before jumping out, silently flying throughout the air. He left Philza behind, who didn’t notice his son bleeding out and the murderer flying away. 

That was before the message registered in chat. 

**_Technoblade was slain by Quackity_ ** . 

Questions came through the chat, mainly from Philza and Sam. Quackity climbed back into his home, blood soaked and bleeding out himself. He leaned on his door, feeling dizzy. Praises and congratulations rang in his ears by the same whisper. 

**_Quackity was slain by Technoblade_ ** .

If only people knew what this would lead to.

\--

Quackity started to hear these whispers more. Sometimes it would be late at night, and he would feel a hand on his thigh and one in his hair as he fell asleep. Sometimes he would wake up to the feeling of kisses on his neck and arms around him. It was strange. He chalked it up to hallucinations. 

Sam and Philza had both tried to come into his house, but he was hidden away each time. He couldn’t dare face them. Not after what he did. 

The whispers were nice when they didn’t demand bloodshed and arson. Murder so he could be with his husband again, husband so he could bring the one he cared for most back to life, murder so he could- 

Looks like he was getting himself a bit too caught up in daydreams. 

He doesn’t like to think about the nights where he’ll wake up in tunnels, loaded, packed with TNT. He doesn’t remember digging, or where he got the tnt, or why he has scars on his cheeks, like something was digging in. 

\--

Quackity finds himself sitting on the top of a hill, it reaches over all of L’Manburg. Everything the sun touches will be gone by dusk. He sees Schlatt standing next to him, and his skin scratches with the notion that he could reach out for him and he’d be  _ there _ . That he’s real.

So he does. 

He grabs Schlatt’s hand and just about starts  _ sobbing _ . He cracks and crumbles but there’s arms around him, shielding him, protecting him. He grips onto his arms, finally the whispers are there. He can feel them. 

“Oh, my darling ducky,” Schlatt presses a kiss into his head. Quackity inches his hand closer to the button they have set up. “Go on, you can press it.”   
  


Quackity presses down, a symphony of screams and deaths register in chat. Red wind emerges from the ground, crackling. It grows, devouring the wood it’s foundations are built on. Some respawn, some don’t. The ones who don’t come back to the ruins. 

They aren’t standing for much longer. He lets the flames build up again, till no one remains. Not even his brother. Not even his dad(s). Not even his fucking best friends. Just him, him and Schlatt. 

The explosions, the flames, still hit Quackity. He left Schlatt’s arms to hang off of the hill for the next blow, his arm and part of his face getting burnt in the process. It wasn’t serious, but enough to leave scars for a while. 

After it was over, he led Schlatt back to their house. It was off everyone else’s, a place for them to just be them. It was just how Schlatt last saw it. They sit on the couch (Quackity still hadn’t replaced it), holding hands and leaning on each other in silence. 

Quackity laughed, this is how it was meant to be. Schlatt and him living as the gods. It was obvious; L’Manburg could never live on it’s own, without chaos. It’s all that kept it going. 

This place was not made for peace. 

It was made for violence. And some people had to learn that the hard way. 

\--

Schlatt sits next to Ghostbur, face grim. His eyes are half-lidded, looking across ashes. Ghostbur tilts his head, “What happened to L’Manburg?”  
  
“Quackity blew it up- Quackity _and I_ blew it up, really.” Schlatt sees how Ghostbur furrows his brows, looking hurt, almost. Schlatt didn’t dare to comment. Not that he could dare to try to care much more for the yellow-sweatered ghost near him. 

“.. What was it like?” Ghostbur scoots closer, looking over the ruins. His voice is soft, slight cracks peering through. He fiddled with his beanie, slipping it over his hair a bit more so his face was obscured. 

Schlatt hesitates, before taking a deep breath, “It was.. Ethereal. He was so.. So fuckin’ soft. He would look at me like I was everything, and whenever I touched him he leaned into it, and gripped onto me like I would disappear. 

“He pressed the button. He didn’t even flinch as the explosions rang out. He just watched, amazed. He was thawing over. He was thawing over for  _ me _ , and- and. I don’t know why but I think that that’s the best way it could have played out. He didn’t push me away. He didn’t force me into the flames, to burn to ash. He stayed with me.

“His lips were bitten and bruised. He still smiled at me. A tooth was gone, scars and burnt flesh dripping from his skin. But he still smiled at me.”


End file.
